•NRLF 


WINIFRED      WELLES 
The 

HESITANT 
HEART 

NEW     YORK:      B.     W.     HUEBSCH 


The 

HESITANT 
HEART 


WINIFRED     WELLES 

The 

HESITANT 
HEART 


New  York    B.  W.  HUEBSCH    Mcmxtx 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,    BYB.    W.    HUEBSCH 
PRINTED   IN    U.    S.    A. 


SOME  of  these  poems  were  first  printed  in  the  North 
American  Review,  The  Century,  The  Liberator,  The  Smart 
Set,  The  Madrigal,  The  Poetry  Journal  and  Contemporary 
Verse,  to  which  due  acknowledgment  is  made. 


4581)2 


Contents 

The  Hesitant  Heart  9 

From  a  Chinese  Vase  10 

School  ii 

The  Unfaithful  April  12 

Five  O'clock  13 

Loud  Youth  14 

Snowfall  15 

Humiliation   16 

Idyll   17 

Cobweb  1 8 

To  Narcissus  19 

One  Voice  20 

Driftwood  21 

Windows  22 

In  Love  23 

Variation  24 

Hail  and  Farewell  25 

Plaint  26 

The  Violin  27 

Keepsake  28 

A  Child's  Song  to  Her  Mother  29 

Threnody  30 


Two  Songs  of  Bitterness  31 

To  a  Mocking-Bird  33 

Gesture  34 

Language  35 

A  Tree  at  Dawn  36 

A  Tree  at  Dusk  37 

Love  Song  from  New  England  38 

Trespasser  39 

Moonflower  40 

Surf  41 

The  Misers  42 

Lifetime  43 

Communion  44 

Talisman  45 

Sympathy  46 

Nocturne  47 

The  Child  48 

My  Heart  Can't  Break  49 

Portrait  of  a  Lady  at  the  Piano  50 

I've  Lived  so  Long  51 

Realities  53 

Setting  for  a  Fairy  Story  54 

Climb  56 


The  Hesitant  Heart 

No,  I  shall  never  climb  above  the  hill, 
But,  wistful,  pause  halfway  and  take  my  fill 

Of  wondering  — 
Behind  me  lies  the  valley,  hot  and  still, 

A  roof-scarred  thing, 

If,  like  a  lagging  cloud  with  slow,  white  feet, 
I  should  surmount  the  hill,  would  I  then  greet 

The  spray-wreathed  sea? 
And  would  the  eager  winds  blow  keen  and  sweet 

Up,  up  to  me? 

Halfway,  my  craven  heart  shall  ever  bide, 
Content  in  hoping  that  the  other  side 

Shines  on  a  silver  shore, 
Yet  fearful  lest  the  high  hills  only  hide 

More  vale  —  and  nothing  more. 


[9] 


Prom  a  Chinese  Vase 

Roaming  the  lonely  garden,  he  and  I 
Pursue  each  other  to  the  fountain's  brim, 
And  there  grow  quiet  —  woman  and  butterfly  — 
The  frail  clouds  beckon  me,  the  flowers  tempt  him. 

My  thoughts  are  rose-like,  beautiful  and  bright, 
Folded  precise  as  petals  are,  and  wings 
Uplift  my  dreaming  suddenly  in  flight, 
And  fill  my  soul  with  jagged  colorings. 

The  waters  tangle  like  a  woman's  hair 
Above  the  dim  reflection  of  a  face  — 
He  thinks  those  are  his  own  lips  laughing  there, 
His  own  breasts  curving  under  silk  and  lace. 

How  shall  we  know  our  real  selves,  he  and  I, 
Which  is  the  woman,  which  the  butterfly? 


[10] 


School 

His  seat  was  by  a  window.     So  he  dreamed. 

How  could  he  study  while  the  sunlight  gleamed 

In  small,  sweet  shapes,  like  wild  things  tame  enough 

To  dart  to  him  and  touch  his  hands  for  love? 

While  there  were  profiles  carved  in  every  cloud 

To  mark  as  grim  or  ludicrous  or  proud, 

And  agile  shadowings  to  writhe  and  crawl 

Like  ghostly  spiders  up  and  down  the  wall, 

He  could  not  help  but  turn  their  way  to  look. 

His  eyes,  that  would  not  follow  down  his  book 

The  muddy  trudgings  of  deliberate  words, 

Reflected  blue  and  silver  flights  of  birds. 

You  would  not  think  there  was  so  much  to  trace 

Of  wonderment  on  just  a  window  space. 

But  once,  when  a  frail  scrap  of  paper  moon 

Enchanted  him  from  ten  o'clock  till  noon, 

They  moved  him  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

He  learned  his  lesson  then  for  very  gloom, 

Until,    came    glowing   to    a   nearby   chair, 

A  little  girl  with  sunset  in  her  hair. 

His  soul  recolored.     The  forlorn  dreams  came 

To  warm  themselves  once  more  at  this  new  flame. 

He  pushed  aside  the  dusty  Greek.     He  had 

A  different  way  to  read  the  Iliad. 

While  through  cold  ashes  others  groped  to  learn, 

He  lit  the  towers  of  Troy  and  saw  them  burn. 


CM] 


The  Unfaithful  April 

I  saw  a  robin  last  year, 
I  heard  him  fill  his  throat 

High  in  the  trembling  elm  tree 
With  note  on  gallant  note. 

So  splendidly  his  red  breast 
Went  flashing  in  the  dew, 

I  thought  beneath  his  glad  wings 
His  heart  had  broken  through. 

I  hear  the  robin  this  year, 

His  voice  is  sweet  and  strong, 

But  I  can  not  give  him  welcome 
Nor  listen  to  his  song. 

How  can  he  bear  the  new  leaves 
Around  his  last  year's  nest? 

How  can  he  sing  with  old  wounds 
Still  red  upon  his  breast? 


[12] 


Five  o'Clock 

Let  us  go  far  away  from  buttered  toast, 

And  tea,  and  marmalade,  and  all  of  it. 

The  feathered  jostling  of  their  hats,  the  wit 

Unhumorous  —  I  can  not  bear  this  host 

Of  warm,  sweet  women !     Everything  offends. 

The  murmurous  movement  of  each  gleaming  bead, 

Sly  laughter  on  soft  lips  that  do  not  feed 

So  much  on  tea  as  on  their  absent  friends. 

I  knew  you  understood  because  your  eyes 

Were  beckoning  across  the  crowd  to  me, 

Oh  Child,  who  have  so  strangely  learned  to  be 

Unconsciously,  mysteriously  wise! 

We  went  away,  unnoticed,  from  the  room 

Into  the  drip  of  slow,  autumnal  rain, 

And  laughed,  and  drew  deep  breath,  and  laughed  again, 

We  were  so  glad  to  leave  that  candled  gloom. 

Through  the  wet  dusk  the  leaves  came  fluttering  — 
I  felt  one  falling  softly  on  my  head 
As  I  leaned  down  to  kiss  you  and  you  said 
Adorably,  "  You're  such  a  dear  old  thing !  " 


Loud  Youth 

There  is  a  great,  sweet  golden  bell  in  me  — 

It  has  a  chime  of  flame,  a  flame  so  bright 

I  seem  to  walk  forever  in  its  light, 

As  gods  do  in  their  immortality. 

Such  a  tremendous  joy  would  come  to  be, 

That  chains  would  turn  to  wreaths  of  blowing  white, 

And  crutches  drop  for  wings  to   flare   in  flight, 

If  I  could  ring  the  bell  that  is  in  me. 

Oh  if  I  could !     The  stars  would  shake  —  and  suns 

And  moons  collapse,  and  the  hollow  ways  of  death 

Fill  with  enough  of  echo  to  revive 

Such  restlessness  among  the  saintly  ones, 

That  the  oldest  of  them  all  would  catch  his  breath 

Remembering  what  it  was  to  be  alive! 


tul 


Snowfall 

Enchantment  on  the  river 

And  magic  on  the  lake, 
The   world   has   turned   to   crystal, 

Don't  speak  or  it  will  break! 

The  road  seems  new,  the  valley 

An    unfamiliar   place, 
Where  trees  are  trimmed  with  spangles 

And   stones   with   silver   lace. 

A  pink   and   white,    furred   rabbit 

With  a  star-tuft  for  a  tail, 
Hops   up   the  hill   by  moonlight 

And  leaves  a  fairy  trail. 

I   think  we  mar  the  meadow 
So  white,  and  smooth  as  suede, 

We  ought  to  shine  in  satin 
Or  glitter  in  brocade. 


Humiliation 

How  nakedly  an  animal 

Lies  down  on  earth  to  die, 

Unmindful   of   the   shining   air, 
And   unashamed   of   sky. 

But  men  and  women  under  roofs 
Draw  shades  and  hush  the  floor, 

And  furtively  they  lay  their  dead 
Behind  a  darkened  door. 


[16] 


Idyll 

Not  the  wise,  quiet  pine  nor  the  amorous,  blonde  oak 

Nor  the  tall,  pale,  lady  elm  tree, 
But  you,  who  came  invisible   in   a  magic  cloak, 

You,  who  were  the  wind,  chose  me. 

I,  the  white  little  birch,  who  had  stood  alone,  serene, 

Content  to  listen  and  to  stare  — 
And  I  never  saw  your  hands  that  tore  my  veils  of  green, 

Nor  your  lips  that  laughed  in  my  hair. 

You  held  me  and  kissed  me,  I  knew  your  strength  and  grace 

And  dreams  rose  like  sap  in  the  spring. 
I  trembled  as  with  buds,  but  I  never  saw  your  face, 

I  only  heard  you  whispering. 

So  yawning  and  careless  you  went  on  to  field  and  sea, 

So  here  I  am  lonely  and  still  — 
Oh  wind,  wind,  better  to  have  broken  me 

Than   leave  me  with   roots   in   the   hill. 


[17] 


Cobweb 

It  joins  a  dark  pine  to  another  tree; 

And  shining  through  its  bones  a  ray  of  sun 

Unearthed  it  like  some  graceful  skeleton, 

Or  an  unfinished  frame  of  faery 

As  frail  as  words.     Not  even  thought  could  be 

More  carefully,  more  delicately  spun  — 

As  fine  a  thread  as  that  invisible  one 

Of  speech  and  silence  between  you  and  me. 

The  spider  lurks  there  blotched  and  poisonous. 

He  is  the  monstrous  god  who  can  at  will 

Belch  beauty  from  a  stomachful  of  spit; 

And  dreaming  of  that  silver  binding  us, 

Which  Love  unwinds  and  weaves,  my  heart  grows  still 

And   cries   that   Love   is   lovely  —  isn't   it? 


[18] 


To  Narcissus 

I  have  no  beauty  that  is  all  my  own, 

No  special  loveliness  carved  out  of  me, 

No  glowing  images  wrought  perfectly, 

Splendour  of  flesh  or  delicacy  of  bone. 

I  am  a  pool,  wherein  you  shall  be  shown 

How  wonderful  and  starlike  you  can  be, 

I  am  a  mirror  so  that  you  may  see 

Yourself  most   intimately   and   alone. 

When  you  lean  to  me  and  a  dear,  swift  grace 

Sways  in  my  body,  and  my  lips  and  eyes 

Grow  suddenly  and  exquisitely  calm  — 

Oh  tremble  and  look  deep  into  my  face 

And  see  your  own  there,  marvel  and  grow  wise, 

Touch  me  and  cry,  "  How  beautiful  I  am !  " 


[19] 


One  Voice 

You  were  the  princess  of  the  fairy  tale 
Who  spoke  in  emeralds  instead  of  words, 

Whose  laughter  left  an  exquisite,  bright  trail 
Of  sounds  as  winged  and  visible  as  birds. 

I  never  knew  until  yours  went  from  me, 

That  any  voice  could  love  my  name  so  much, 

That  just  to  speak  it  made  it  seem  to  be 
A  fragrance  and  a  color  and  a  touch. 

My  days  are  gestures  of  bewilderment, 
My  nights  are  attitudes  of  listening, 

For  fear  you  may  have  whispered  as  you  went, 
And  I  shall  lose  the  starlike  echoing. 


[20J 


Driftwood 

Life  gave  me  these  — 

The   beauty   that   can   only  branch   in   trees 

Who  are  content,  knowing  the  roots'  securities  — 

The  strength  to  stand  up  straight  and  bear  the  wings 

Of  a  brave  ship  on  her  adventurings  — 

The  bitterness  of  being  broken,  being  tossed 

And  driven  on  the  waters  and  the  winds,  and  lost 

In  desolation,   mist  and  stinging  foam, 

And  being  beaten  back  at  last  to  home. 

Now  love  has  kindled  me  — 
Strange  that  my  beauty  of  a  dear,  green  tree 
Should  vanish  into  smoke  and  memory. 
Strange  that  the  strength,  magnificently  mine, 
Should  fall  before  the  flame  without  a  sign. 
But  oh  most  strange  that  bitterness  should  be 
Drawn  up  in  color  after  color  out  of  me. 


[21] 


Windows 

Today  I  have  been  washing  windows 
Where  storms  have  left  their  stain, 
And  marks  were  made   in  loneliness 
By  someone's  fingers  —  mine,  I  guess  — 
On   the  outside   smear   of   rain, 
On  the  inside  blur  of  pain. 

I  had  forgotten  that  clean  windows 
Can  make  such  difference. 

That  through  a  glass  as  clear  as  air, 
Landscapes  seem  painted  on  each  square, 
That  colors  shapely  and  intense 
Can    bring   relief    and    recompense. 

I've   looked   so   long   through   darkened  windows 
Where  my  own  reflection  peers, 
I   had  forgotten  there  might  be 
Things  outside  myself  to  see  — 
I  wonder  if  your  eyesight  clears 
For  better  vision  after  tears. 


[22] 


In  Love 

No  firefly  more  forlorn,  more  gravely  strays 

Among  the  glories  of  the  morning  tree 

Than  I,  who  glide  almost  invisibly 

Where  apple  boughs  are  white  as  brides'  bouquets. 

Beneath  the  arches  of  the  orchard  ways, 

Only  one  tulip,  that  I  start  to  see, 

As  though  my  own  heart  had  dropped  out  of  me, 

Seems  to  have  guessed  that  I,  too,  am  ablaze. 

My  blood  is  full  of  gleamings  like  seafoam, 
My  body  brims  with  something  of  the  moon 
And  shakes,  as  if  with  wings  that  would  unfold. 
So,  after  dark,  I  bar  the  doors  of  home, 
Lest  those,  who  think  that  I  am  grey  at  noon, 
Should  stare  at  night  to  see  that  I  am  gold. 


[23] 


Variation 

Undesirous  of  a  lover 

Daphne   hid   where   cool    ferns  were 

And  the  kind  god  of  the  river 
With  the  flesh  and  blood  of  her 
Made  a  green  tree  lovelier. 

What  presence  could  fill  a  forest, 

Or  footfall  so  fearful  be, 
That  a  god  must  rise  in  pity 

To  change  a  quiet  tree 

Into  me? 


[24] 


Hail  and  Farewell 

With  tears  and  a  faithful  heart  and  brave  mirth, 
Once  on  a  time  you  watched  to  welcome  me. 
Waiting  and  weariness  and  agony 
Until  the  last  were  what  you  thought  me  worth. 
But  wearier  than  the  months  that  wait  for  birth 
Are   those   that  wait   for   death  —     How   shall   I   be 
Still  while  you  are  so  still?     How  shall  I  see 
Unbrokenhearted  your  slow  steps  from  earth? 

So  the  white  watchers  gather  near  to  hark 
The  soul's  approach,  the  heralding  of  the  horn, 
And  so  they  strain  and  listen  for  the  tread 
Of  the  free  soul  retreating  down  the  dark  — 
Mothers  who  wait  for  children  to  be  born, 
Children  who  wait  for  mothers  to  be  dead. 


[25] 


Plaint 

I  too  would  run  like  Nicolette 
Down  aisles  of  rose  and  mignonette, 
And  stain  my  knees  with  midnight  dew 
Passing    the    ghostly    gardens    through, 
If  I   should  know  that  loverly 
Young   Aucassin    awaited   me! 

And  I  could  leave  without  regret 
My  warm  white  bed  like  Nicolette, 
And  flee  from  roof  and  candle-light 
Into  the  deepest  hour  of  night, 
If  by  the  ivy-shadowed  wall, 
I  knew  that  Aucassin  would  call. 

But  I'll  not  tremble  in  the  wet, 
Nor  bruise  my  feet  like  Nicolette, 
Only  to  dream  of  his  embrace, 
Only  to  think  I  see  his  face, 
Feel  nothing  sweeter  on  my  mouth 
Than  heedless  wind  lips  from  the  south, 
Only  to  stand  unloved,   alone, 
And  listen  to  the  fountain  moan 
From  stone  to  unresponsive  stone. 


[26] 


The  Violin 

Musician,    give    a    voice    to    me! 

Oh  quicken  wood  and  string, 
Unburden  me  of  ecstasy, 

For  I  have  songs  to  sing! 

Of  faces  forward  through  dark  rains, 

Of   torn   but  valiant  feet, 
Of  blood  that  runs  in  shrinking  veins, 

Of   broken   hearts   that   beat. 

Of  crooked  boughs  that  have  kept  true 

The   promise   to   fulfill, 
Of  thwarted  roots  that  yet  pursue 

Their  purpose  in   the  hill. 

Oh  all  you  safe  and  smooth  of  heart 

Listen  to  song  from  me, 
Whose  wooden  throat  was  once  a  part 

Of  the  north  side  of  a  tree! 


[27] 


Keepsake 

You  said  they  were  brook  trout  — 

Those  fairy  blades  of  sun  and  moonlight 

You  so  gravely  lifted  out 

One  by  one  from  your  basket  on  the  grass. 

And  I  held  up  two  handfuls 

Of   pink  and   green   and   white 

For  everyone  to  see, 

And  called  the  colors  by  a  name, 

Wood-anemone. 

But  of  all  those  little  dreams  in  cups 
Left  brimming  over  on  the  moss, 
And   of  that   big,    breathless  one 
We  leaned  across 

The  fallen  willow  to  give  back  again 
To  deep  and  shoal  — 
We  never  said  a  word, 
We  never  told  a  soul! 


[28] 


A  Child's  Song  to  Her  Mother 

The  lovely  years  went  lightly  by 

As  April  flowers  go, 
And  often  you  would  laugh  or  cry 

To  see  how  I  could  grow. 

The  lonely  years  drift  by  in   rain, 

As  leaves  in  autumn  do. 
I  long,  when  we  shall  meet  again, 

To  be  as  tall  as  you. 


[29] 


Threnody 

I  never  have  known  anyone  so  proud, 

So  fierce  for  faith,  so  strong  for  nobleness. 

I  never  heard  you  whine  nor  cry  distress, 

Nor  saw  you  kneel  nor  knew  your  bright  head  bowed. 

Dreams,  Love  and  Laughter  were  a  swift,  white  crowd 

Of  wings  flashed  upward  from  your  loveliness, 

You  carried  Truth,  wore  Honor  as  a  dress 

And  wound  yourself  in  Beauty  like  a  cloud. 

Surely  this  is  not  you  who  lies  so  low, 
Smitten  as  others,  yielding  as  they  must 
With  abject  hands  and  smooth,  submissive  head, 
All  fire  and  glory  crumpled  by  one  blow, 
Bewildered  and  beaten  and  brought  to  dust, 
This  is  not  you,  oh  pitiful  and  dead! 


Two  Songs  of  Bitterness 


Dear  to  me  is  Ruth,  a  bowl  of  crystal 

She  brims  her  heart  with  laughter  and  I  look 

And  see  her  clear  as  the  dew  on  a  cobweb, 
Or  green  water  over  white  sand  in  a  brook. 

Mary  is  dearer,  color  and  story 

Are  wound  in  her  and  like  soft  cloths  unfold, 
And  when  she  moves  her  footsteps  are  of  silver, 

And  where  she  will  her  touch  can  turn  to  gold. 

Oh  sweet  as  wine  is  laughter  with  the  loving, 
And  speech  with  the  living  good  as  bread, 

But  only  with  a  ghost  can  I  feast  in  silence, 
With  Eunice,  who  is  dearest,  being  dead. 


The  princess  that  I  could  not  be. 
The  fairy  that  was  not  for  me, 
The   game   begun    and   never   ended, 
The  castle  dreamed,  the  play  pretended, 
The   note  unsung,   the  word   unspoken, 
Whatever  I  have  lost  and  broken, 
My  doll,  my  heart,  my  promises, 
All  these  things   Eunice  is  — 
When  I  lie  down  with  her  to  rest, 
I'll  find  my  dearest  and  my  best 
Safe  in  her  dust  beneath  the  sod, 
Kept  fair  and  clear  and  written  plain, 
And  then  I  shall  believe  again 
In  elves  and  knights  and  love  and  God. 


[32] 


To  a  Mocking-Bird 

I  was  asleep,  dreaming  that  I  could  see 

The  north  hills  bowed  and  burdened  with  the  snow, 

And  the  grey-bearded  river  old  and  slow, 

And  the  sick  silences  on  vine  and  tree  — 

When  in  upon  my  loneliness  and  me 

Light  rushed,  and  sweetness  tumbled  down  as  though 

Windows  had  opened  for  white  hands  to  throw 

Roses  and  roses  from  a  balcony. 

Oh  Bird,  imperious  for  happiness, 

For  moments  gold  as  arrows  in  the  air, 

I  am  the  only  dark  in  all  daybreak! 

Let  loose  your  avalanche  of  loveliness 

Over  my  heart,  until  I  am  aware 

How  long  I  sleep  —  and  sing  me  wide  awake ! 


[33] 


Gesture 

My  arms  were  always  quiet, 

Close,  and  never  freed. 
I  was  furled  like  a  banner, 

Enfolded  like  a  seed. 

I   thought,  when  Love  shall  strike  me, 
Each  arm  will  start  and  spring, 

Unloosen  like  a  petal, 
And  open  like  a  wing. 

Oh   Love  —  my   arms   are   lifted, 
But   not  to  sway  and  toss; 

They  strain  out  wide  and  wounded, 
Like  arms  upon  a  cross. 


[34] 


Language 

I  made  new  speech  for  you,  a  secret  tongue, 

Dearest  and  best  of  all  in  book  or  scroll  — 

To  hear  it  spoken  was  to  hear  it  sung, 

I  copied  all  of  it  upon  my  soul. 

There  were  those  leafy  letters,  wreathed  like  vines, 

Such   trellises  of  words  as  Sappho  spoke  — 

Heavy  as  silver  flagons  of  old  wines 

Some  Latin  phrases  carved  by  stately  folk. 

I  could  not  find  a  sound  for  leavetakings 

Slower,  more  sorrowful  than  Spanish  is, 

And  the  French  names  with  flower-dusty  wings 

Flew  in   and  out  among  the  sentences. 

So  with  my  heart  a  voice  made  musical, 

I  went  to  you  and  did  not  speak  at  all. 


[35] 


A  Tree  at  Dawn 

I  know  that  day  will  come  for  I  have  seen 
Under   the  sky   three   silver  threads  unravelling, 

The  blackness  whispers  of  green  — 

A  sound  becomes  a  glimmering 
And  waters  waken. 

White  from  her  sleep  the  Lily  prays  — 

A  fragrance  sways 
Where  the  grass  is  shaken. 

And  as  the  last  hour  listens,  lingering, 
Deep  in  my  heart  the  Voice  begins  to  sing. 


[36] 


A  Tree  at  Dusk 

With  secrets  in  their  eyes  the  blue-winged  Hours 
Rustle  through  the  meadow 
Dropping  shadow. 

x 

Yawning  among  red  flowers, 

The  Moon  Child  with  her  golden  hoop 
And  a  pink  star  drifting  after, 
Leans  to  me  where  I   droop. 

I  hear  her  delicate,  soft  laughter, 

And  through  my  hair  her  tiny  fingers  creep.  .  .  . 

I  shall  sleep. 


[37] 


Love  Song  from  New  England 

In  every  solemn  tree  the  wind 

Has  rung  a  little  lonesome  bell, 
As  sweet  and  clear,  as  cool  and  kind 

As  my  voice  bidding  you  farewell. 

This   is  an  hour  that  gods  have  loved 

To  snatch  with  bare,  bright  hands  and  hold. 

Mine,  with  a  gesture,  grey  and  gloved, 
Dismiss  it  from  me  in  the  cold. 

Closely  as  some  dark-shuttered  house 

I  keep  my  light.     How  should  you  know, 

That  as  you  turn  beneath  brown  boughs, 
My  heart  is  breaking  in  the  snow? 


[38] 


Trespasser 


I    am   among  the  careless   dead 

Who  do  not  rise  to  see 
Why  I  should  hurry  through  their  flowers 

Beneath  their  willow  tree, 
Nor  lift  their  hands  from  off  their  breasts 

To  beckon  me. 

But  though  I  run  so  lightly  through 

The  myrtle's   rambling  mass, 
And  though  my  feet  step  silently 

Above  the  blowing  grass, 
And  though  they  do  not  stir  or  speak  — 

They  know  I  pass. 


[39] 


Moonflower 

I  can  not  be  a  banner  swift  and  gay, 

A  yellow  glory  or  a  scarlet  flight, 

Superbly  opening  upward   into   light  — 

While  some  are  waving  scarves  I  only  pray. 

I  am  the  one  who  hides  her  heart  by  day, 

Who  does  not  dare  to  rise  and  blossom  white 

Until  the  lovely  moment  before  night, 

The  interval  of  lavendar  and  grey. 

So  love  me  delicately  as  the  rain 

Fingers   the  leaves.     Hold  me  as  if   asleep  — 

Nor   waken   me   with    some    too    terrible 

Dear  call  or  kiss,  lest,  stricken  with  the  pain 

Of  your  close-beating  heart,  my  heart  should  leap 

And  break,  finding  the  world  too  beautiful! 


[40] 


Surf 

Here   are   gardens   growing,    ruining   in    the   deep, 

Where  the  frail  foam  pauses,  then  topples  and  unturns 
Forever  and  forever,  wonderful  white  ferns, 

Where  feathers  fly  in  colors  and  lights  like  lizards  creep, 

Where  the  twining,  white  ivy  shrivels  and  is  rolled 
Glamorous    and    blowing    into    fragment    and    flake 
Beneath  enormous  orchids  that  only  bloom  to  break, 

To  crumble  into  smoke  and  turn  to  opal  mould. 

*   And  some  waves  like  children  —  each  one  alight,  alone  — 
Hurry  up  the  pathway  and  point  and  hesitate, 
Their  torn  blue  ruffles  tossing  around  them  as  they  wait, 
As  they  turn  and  tiptoe  seaward  over  shell  and  stone. 

So  it  is  that  wonderings  flow  in  and  out  of  me  — 
Like  little  bells  and  tassels  of  foam  along  a  beach 
They  dream  and  sigh  and  whisper,  whimper  and  reach 

For  peace  withdrawn  as  softly  as  sand  from  the  sea. 


[41] 


The  Misers 

We  were  so  fearful  lest  we  give  too  much 
And  thereby  wrench  the  sweetness  from  the  song, 
Trembled   to   look   too   deep   or  kiss   too   long, 
And  stood  aloof  when  we  yearned  most  to  touch. 

Oh  had  we  been  content,  less  passionate 
For  Love's  eternity  we  had  not  lost 
The  least  of  Love's  eternal  hours,  whose  cost 
We  never  dreamed  until  it  was  too  late. 

So  was  life  stripped  of  even  memories 
To  meet  that  time  when  we  had  no  desire, 
That  day  we  looked  and  turned  away  shamed  eyes, 
Seeing  but  ashes  where  had  once  been  fire. 

No  splendid  shadows  of  a  well-lost  heaven, 
But  tearful  ghosts  of  kisses  never  given. 


[42] 


Lifetime 

I  am  the  river,  I  have  been  immense 

With  hope,  great  as  the  inner  heart  of  spring - 

The  reeds  have  huddled  to  my  whimpering 

Amid  the  noon-time's  staleness  and  suspense. 

Between  the  ruins  of  magnificence, 

Stained  and  autumnal,  mournfully  I  sing, 

And   then   among  my  white   beards  muttering 

Grow  old,  and  sleep  into  indifference. 

I  have  no  returning,  onward  is  best, 

Close  to  the  dark,  sweet  earth  in  every  place, 

But  with  the  sky's  mark  hidden  in  my  breast, 

And  a  star's  shadow  falling  on  my  face. 

Where  shining  spaces  wait  to  fill  with  me, 

Death   is   the   beautiful  and  bitter  sea. 


[43] 


Communion 

With  delicate,  white  hands  the  priest  has  laid 
His  usual  blessing  on  the  wine  and  bread, 
And  to  each  broken  figure,  each  bent  head, 
The  symbol  brought,  the  silver  cup  conveyed. 
The  candles  peer,   uneasy  and   afraid, 
Like  small,  grey  faces  from  the  mournful  dead, 
And  up  and  down  the  aisles  the  organ's  dread 
And  doubt  and  grief  and  gravity  have  strayed. 

Softly  the  stained  glass  windows  split  apart, 
Their  ineffectual  angels  pine  and  pass    — 
I  am  upright  and  proud.     Whom  I  seek  now 
Sudden  and  sure  as  dawn  breaks  in  my  heart  — 
And  I  tread  stars  as  intimately  as  grass, 
Touch  light  as  though  it  were  a  golden  bough. 


Talisman 

He  was  a  little  boy  and  gentle, 

With  the  dim  look  in  his  eyes 
Of  one  accustomed  to  a  temple 

And  speech  there  with  the  wise. 

He  went  the  adventurous  way  of  beauty 
And  passed  unharmed  without  distress, 

And   learned  a  secret   for  unlocking 
The  spells  of  ugliness. 

He  knew,  like  someone  in  a  legend, 
The  magic  in  the  lowliest  things, 

That  stones  are  golden  coaches  really, 
And  frogs  are  fairy  kings. 

So  when  Death  came,  he  saw  her  coming 

With  a  tall  star  in  her  hand, 
And  turned   from  life  as  from  enchantment 

At  the  waving  of  her  wand. 


[45] 


Sympathy 

While  all  of  you  are  bringing  milk  and  bread 
And  stroking  me  and  saying  I  must  rest, 
Remembrance  beats  like  black  wings  in  my  head, 
And  wolfish  grief  is  clawing  in  my  breast. 

I  know  that  you  are  kind,  that  you  mean  well, 
And  thanking  you  so  quietly  I  seem 
So  comforted  that  you  could  never  tell 
I'm  wondering  why  it  is  I  do  not  scream. 

Oh    crucify   me!     Nail    my   hands    and    feet! 
Strike  in  and  turn  the  torture  of  a  knife 
Heart-deep  to  loose  my  blood  and  take  my  breath 
Pain  would  be  good  and  suffering  seem  sweet. 
But  keep  your  love  for  those  who  still  love  life, 
And  do  not  feed  me  who  am  starved  to  death. 


[46] 


Nocturne 

i 

I  have  grown  pale  and  paler 

Since  one  went  away, 
Who  passed  from  me  as  softly 

As  daylight  leaves  the  day. 

My  hair  has  lost  its  gleaming, 

The  light  has  left  my  face, 
I  am  a  grey-eyed  wanderer 

In  any  lonely  place. 

And  on  my  heart  is  moonlight 
Like  white   rain   on   the   sea, 

And   I  am  of  the  evening 
As  the  evening  is  of  me. 

A  gentle  moan,  remembrance, 

A   folded   wing  is   love, 
Since    my    dream    stepped    into   shadow 

On  the  soft  feet  of  a  dove. 

Now  when   thoughts   of   him   arise 

And  open  in  my  soul, 
They  are  frailer  than  white  roses 

In  a  silver  bowl. 


[47] 


The  Child 

The  linden  bough  above  the  garden  wall, 

The  pleasant  meadow  and  the  pretty  brook, 

What  miles  of  dream  they  spread,  what  torrents  shook, 

What  majesty  they  wore  when  I  was  small! 

Since  I  am  grown  they  are  not  so  at  all. 

Absurd  and  dear  as  fairies  in  a  book, 

They  fade  and  dwindle  and  will  never  look 

Mighty  again  to  me  for  I  am  tall. 

I    shall    grow    taller,    sometime    I    shall   be 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  full-grown  cloud, 

And,  looking  down  on  life  and  death  and  birth, 

As  I  do  now  on  grasses  or  a  tree, 

Remembering  myself  shall  laugh  aloud 

And  think,  "  Oh  little  Grief!     Oh  foolish  Earth!  " 


[48] 


My  Heart  Cant  Break 

My  heart  can't  break  but  closes  like  a  flower 
That  waits  in  windless  places  for  the  day, 
Until  the  arrowy  dawn  finds  some  swift  way 
To  pierce  its  paleness  with  a  gleaming  hour. 

And  when  at  last  I  look  without  offense 
Through  windows  and  in  mirrors  that  were  yourrs, 
The   stranger  shadow    in   them    reassures 
My  heart  that  it  has  learned  indifference. 

So  hour  and  hour  and  hour  and  dark  and  light 
Go  rustling  softly  by  as  women  do, 
Trailing  complacence  in  a  silken  dress. 

Until,    crying   with    loneliness    some    night, 
I  wake  from  that  old  dream  of  losing  you 
To  find  my  hands  closed  tight  on  emptiness. 


[49] 


Portrait  of  a  Lady  at  the  Piano 

She  spoke  assent,  decisively  and  clear, 

Flashed  to  her  seat,  flame-eyed  and  shining-lipped, 

As  though  she  were  a  crystal  that  had  slipped 

Down  from  the  brilliance  of  the  chandelier. 

Her  hands  glittered  —     We  thought  that  we  could  hear 

Icewater  on  white  marble  as  it  dripped, 

Or  yards  of  pale,  blue  satin  deftly  ripped 

To  shreds,  or  falling  fragments  of  a  spear. 

Is  there  not  anywhere  deep  down  in  her 
One  long,  soft  note  to  penetrate  this  blur 
Of  splintered  music?     Do  bright,  broken  things 
Litter  her  soul,   or  has  she  somewhere  stored 
In  secret  purple,  like  warm  evenings, 
The  steady  darkness  of  some  perfect  chord? 


[50] 


I've  Lived  So  Long 

I've  lived  so  long  companionless 
In  this  old  house  bowed  down  with  years, 
I've  learned  to  welcome  loneliness, 
Converse  with  dreams  and  sit  with  fears. 


Often  and  often  in  the  night 
When  I  have  laid  some  dull  book  down, 
One  comes  between  me  and  the  light 
With  terrible,  unrustling  gown. 

Wistful   as   moonlight   in    the    room 
Her  face  sways,  luminous  with  fire 
Of  eyes  unsmothered  by  the  tomb, 
Of  lips  remembering  still  desire. 

And  there  beside  the  lute  she  stands 
With   mournful   little   motionings, 
And  stretches  out  her  pulseless  hands 
And  only  thrusts  them  through  the  strings. 

No  way  to  bring  her  longing  near 

Who  has  no  heart  to  beat  and  break, 

Nor  any  way  that  she  can  hear 

The   sound   her  lost   touch  can   not  make. 

[51] 


Oh  who  will  sit  here  wondering 
Some  other  night  and  watch  me  steal 
Close  to  an  unforgotten  thing 
With  hands  that  reach  but  do  not  feel? 


[52] 


Realities 

When  I  stand  listening  in  my  heart  at  night, 
I  hear  them  leaping  through  the  loneliness 
Ringing  their  colored  bells,  and  less  and  less 
I  grieve  as  they  come  flashing  into  sight. 
The  lover  Dreams  run  first,  boy-like  and  bright, 
Then  lusty  Ghosts   and  ruddy  Fairies  press 
And  crowd  to  kiss  my  hair  or  touch  my  dress, 
Substantial  as  the  stars,  as  real  as  light. 

My  heart  grows  dark  with  the  returning  day, 
And  flames  no  more,  but  flickers  and  grows  faint. 
Faces  fade  by  me   in  a  ghostly  stream, 
Voices  of   people   are   a   faroff  plaint. 
I   move   uncertainly,    and   grope   my   way 
Among  them,  like  a  shadow  or  a  dream. 


[53] 


Setting  for  a  Fairy  Story 

This  is  a  lonesome  place. 

The  water  is  as  peaceful  as  a  face, 

That  moods  have  smoothed  and  dreams  made  exquisite. 

And  where  your  paddle  gleams  and  slips, 

It  seems  as  if.  one  sighed  and  closed  his  lips. 

And  softly  and  as  sly 

As  ghostly  cats,  the  long  white  mists  prowl  by. 

Oh  I  can  tell 

We  are  not  wanted  here!     There  is  some  spell 

Those  dwarfs  of  trees,  who  squat  around  the  lake, 

Are  squinting  through  the  dusk  to  see  us  break. 

So  desolate  a  place  ...  so  full  of  wonder.  .  .  . 

Now  near,   and  far,  and  over  us  and  under, 

A  million  million  frogs  entreat. 

Their  thin,  entangled  threads  of  voices  meet 

And  mingle  with  the  tree-toads',  jarring  sweet 

And  whirring  strong  as  tiny  motors  might. 

And  leader  of  them  all  far  down  the  night, 

One  huge,  wet-bellied,  moss-mouthed  crier 

Twangs  like  a  taut  bronze  wire. 

The  way  grows  narrower,  the  voices  less. 

Only  the  water-lilies  in  distress 

Hold  up  their  horrified  white  hands,  and  cling 

Close  to  each  other  shuddering. 

And  I  am  troubled  by  their  breath, 

That  smells  of  mystery,  or  sleep,  or  death. 

[54] 


And  was  it  death  or  sleep  or  mystery, 

That  slew  the  -knighthood  in  so  brave  a  tree, 

And  left  him  torn  to  bowels,  stripped  to  bone, 

Abject  and  mutilated  and  alone? 

His  body,  broken  but  still  marvellous, 

Darkens  and   bars   the  way   for   us. 

And  so  we  leave  our  boat  and  move 

Timidly  through  a  fearsome  grove, 

Where  witches'  shadows  huddle  as  we  go  — 

It  ends  —  as  sudden  as  a  blow. 

And    here    are    blessed,    blue-lit    spaces! 

The   fireflies   everywhere, 

Like  tips  of  wands  are  waving  in  the  air. 

And  we  can  see  our  faces 

Dimly,  like  faces  in  a  well. 

So  quieted  beneath  that  star, 

We  have  forgotten  that  there  was  a  spell, 

And  kiss,  and  laugh  to  find  how  real  we  are! 

And  then,  as  if  she  heard  our  laughter, 

And  longed  to  tiptoe  after, 

Amazingly  alone  and  still, 

And  very  fairy-queenlike  on  the  hill, 

The  moon  uprises,  darling  as  of  old. 

So  we  go  home,  resplendent  in  her  gold, 

Safe  in  her  glory, 

And  happy  as  the  ending  of  a  story. 

Mount  Misery  Brook 


[55] 


Climb 

My  shoes  fall  on  the  house-top  that  is  so  far  beneath  me, 
I  have  hung  my  hat  forever  on  the  sharp  church  spire, 

Now  what  shall  seem  the  hill  but  a  moment  of  surmounting, 
The  height  but  a  place  to  dream  of  something  higher! 

Wings?     Oh  not  for  me,   I  need  no  other  pinions 
Than  the  beating  of  my  heart  within  my  breast; 

Wings  are  for  the  dreamer  with  a  bird-like  longing, 
Whose  dreams  come  home  at  eventide  to  nest. 

The  timid  folk  beseech  me,  the  wise  ones  warn  me, 

They  say  that  I  shall  never  grow  to  stand  so  high ; 
But  I  climb  among  the  hills  of  cloud  and  follow  vanished 

lightning, 

I  shall  stand  knee-deep  in  thunder  with  my  head  against 
the  sky. 

Tiptoe,  at  last,  upon  a  pinnacle  of  sunset, 

I  shall  greet  the  death-like  evening  with  laughter  from 

afar, 
Nor  tremble  in  the  darkness  nor  shun  the  windy  midnight, 

For  by  the  evening  I  shall  be  a  star. 


[56] 


TH.S  BOOK™    H      S/*1"!"-  T° 

W.UL  .NCREASE  TO  so  CENT=  '  ™E  P™ALTY 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  rue-  N  ™E  FOUK™ 
OVERDUE.  '  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


\ 


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